


Scars That Bind

by Jadzia_Bear



Series: Desus ficlet collection [4]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, brief references to physical abuse, but seriously it's mostly cotton candy, mention of a homophobic slur, very brief references to self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 05:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzia_Bear/pseuds/Jadzia_Bear
Summary: Paul sheaths his knife and fixes Daryl with a sober gaze. “You want to live to keep killing walkers, you need to have that shoulder looked at.”Or, the one where Daryl has a pulled muscle and Paul used to be a massage therapist.





	Scars That Bind

**Author's Note:**

> My take on what happens when Paul sees Daryl’s scars for the first time. Hopefully you haven’t read a version like this before, I know I haven’t :) 
> 
> Trigger warning: brief references to physical abuse and very brief references to self-harm

Paul glances over at Daryl for the tenth time in as many minutes. Specifically he’s looking at Daryl’s shoulders, which isn’t unusual, he does that a lot, but today it’s not simply out of sheer appreciation.

It’s a pleasant Spring morning. The door of the trailer has been left open to admit the sunshine and fresh air, and Earl’s hammer rings like a metronome in the distance. Daryl slouches on his bed in the main room of the trailer, reading a book. He’s holding his right shoulder at a slightly unnatural angle, though anyone else probably wouldn’t even notice it.

Daryl turns the page and there’s something stiff about the movement. He’s clearly in pain, no matter how much he’s trying to hide it.

Paul flops down onto the bed by Daryl’s feet. “Done something to your shoulder?”

Daryl gives him a quick side-eye, which is about as much surprise as Daryl ever shows about anything. “Just pulled a muscle or somethin’. ’S nothin’.”

“You should let me take a look at it,” Paul says, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I used to be a massage therapist.”

Daryl’s gaze slides down to Paul’s hands and lingers there for a long moment. “’Course ya did,” he mutters, like it shouldn’t surprise him to learn that Paul has yet another string to his bow. “I said it’s nothin’.”

“Come on,” Paul needles, jostling Daryl’s socked feet with his elbow. “You know you want my hands on you.”

This sort of thing would usually elicit an insult of some sort, but today Daryl doesn’t even grant him the courtesy of a glare. He simply pushes off the bed with his book and strides out the door, putting an end to the conversation. Paul does get the satisfaction of seeing a hint of pink in his cheeks, though. Daryl totally likes him, he’s sure of it.

“Bye, I guess?” He watches Daryl’s posture as he walks away. That shoulder definitely needs attention.

* * *

After lunch, he and Daryl head outside the walls to take care of a small group of walkers that have been drawn by the sound of Earl’s hammering, as is often the case.

Daryl’s crossbow work isn’t quite as responsive or accurate as usual on account of his shoulder, but there’s not that many of them, so it’s fine—until suddenly it isn’t and Paul finds himself fighting off three walkers of his own as he watches Daryl struggle with two that are right on him. Paul’s heart leaps into his throat, but he forces himself to focus. Stab, duck, slash, stab, and his three are down. Meanwhile Daryl’s put one down, with one to go. Paul launches himself in Daryl’s direction and thrusts his knife through the ear of the walker trying to bite Daryl’s face off. The half-rotten corpse drops to the ground, leaving the two of them panting from adrenalin and effort.

Paul sheaths his knife and fixes Daryl with a sober gaze. “You want to live to keep killing walkers, you need to have that shoulder looked at.”

Daryl makes a sound that’s a cross between a huff of annoyance and a sigh of resignation.

“Fine, asshole,” he mutters, like this is all Paul’s fault, but all Paul feels is relief.

As they head back inside the walls, Daryl seems to withdraw into himself more with every step. By the time they get to the trailer, he’s more tense and awkward than Paul has ever seen him. His shoulders are hunched in a way that has nothing to do with his injury and he keeps avoiding eye contact.

It kills Paul inside to see someone who has done so much to help others so distressed at the idea of being on the receiving end of some care and attention himself. He wishes he could wrap Daryl in a hug, tell him it’s okay, that he deserves this, but he knows it wouldn’t have the desired effect. No doubt the growing attraction between them that Daryl refuses to acknowledge—thank you, internalised homophobia—is only making things worse.

Paul suggests they use Daryl’s bed in the main room. He doesn’t want the potentially intimate feel of one of the bedrooms to make Daryl wig out any more than he already is.

“Have you ever had a massage before?” Paul asks, swishing a small bottle of massage oil around in a bowl of hot water to help it warm up.

“Nup,” Daryl answers around his thumbnail.

Back when Paul was a practicing massage therapist he’d help his clients relax by creating a calming atmosphere, but somehow he doesn’t think an Enya CD and some lavender-scented candles are going to cut it here. Maybe the best approach is just to address the elephant in the room.

“Hey, so, I know I jerk your chain a lot—”

“Flirt,” Daryl interrupts him. “You flirt, is what you do.”

Paul chuckles. “Yeah, okay, you got me, I do,” he admits. “But I promise this will be strictly therapeutic, no funny business.”

This information doesn’t seem to relax Daryl anywhere near as much as he’d thought it would.

Paul suppresses a sigh and decides the oil is warm enough. He scoops the bottle out of the bowl and heads towards the bed, motioning for Daryl to follow. He seats himself cross-legged in the middle of it and directs Daryl to sit in front of him on the edge of the bed. He’d rather have him lying down but he’s hoping that allowing him to sit facing the door will make him feel less vulnerable. As Daryl unbuttons his shirt, Paul even contemplates getting the crossbow and putting it in Daryl’s lap, just to try and help him access the self-assurance he feels when he wields it.

All thoughts of crossbows disappear as Daryl’s shirt falls away.

Paul realises what he’s looking at immediately and it hits him hard in the gut, the way those perpendicular lines couldn’t possibly be accidental, the way the scars are so old they must have been inflicted long before the world went to hell.

Daryl sits perfectly still in a defensive hunch, waiting for Paul’s reaction no doubt. So _this_ is the reason for his tension.

Paul sets his own broiling emotions aside. This isn’t about him, this is about what Daryl needs.

“Now those are quite impressive,” Paul comments, as he shifts around so he’s sitting next to Daryl on the edge of the bed, “but I’m still not sure they top mine.”

He pulls his tank top off over his head, then lifts an arm to reveal the pinkish-white etchings on the side of his ribs. Daryl stares, tilts his head a little to read the crudely carved letters—F, A and G.

Daryl lifts a hand towards them, but doesn’t quite make contact.

“Who?” he asks, his voice like gravel.

“Told you I grew up in a group home? Sometimes it was okay, but sometimes there were older kids that, well… let’s just say they’re the reason I learned martial arts as soon as I got the chance.”

Daryl’s fingers are only a fraction of an inch away, and it’s almost a subconscious thing, the way Paul sways just enough so they connect.

Daryl brushes rough fingertips over his ribs. Pleasant goosebumps spread down Paul’s arms.

“Only a few of them are my own handiwork,” Paul says, touching a set of short, neat parallel lines nearby.

Daryl doesn’t say anything, but the hand with the cigarette burns twitches. Paul had wondered if they were self-inflicted.

“What doesn’t kill us, though, right?” Paul says ruefully, trying to lighten the mood. As he slips his shirt back on, a thought occurs to him. “Hey, would you rather we did this in one of the other rooms? Bit more privacy?” He’s not expecting anyone to come through the front door, but that doesn’t really mean much.

Daryl nods.

Paul leads him to his own bedroom and spreads out a towel in the middle of the neatly made double bed.

“Lie down there for me,” he says as he twists his hair up into a bun so it won’t fall in his eyes.

Daryl toes off his boots. Paul tries not to stare as Daryl crawls, half naked, across his bed. He sinks down onto his stomach with a sigh, seeming much more at ease than before.

Paul tips warm oil into one hand and spreads it over his palms as he approaches the bed. “Okay, here we go,” he murmurs, giving Daryl plenty of warning that he’s about to begin, and to Daryl’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch when Paul’s hands touch his skin.

Paul starts by smoothing the oil over Daryl’s upper back, his shoulders, the base of his neck. He has barely even started when Daryl groans in pleasure.

Paul can’t help smiling. “Good, right?”

“Fucking amazing,” comes the response, muffled by the bed covers.

Paul is so happy it actually hurts, right in the middle of his chest. He’s spent plenty of time thinking about how much he’d enjoy touching Daryl in a myriad of ways, but it had never occurred to him that something as chaste as this—being able to give Daryl this simple pleasure—would bring him so much joy. The temptation is strong to lean down and kiss the side of his neck, but Paul resists. There’s something much more important going on here.

He kneads the hard muscles of Daryl’s back and shoulders. They’re riddled with knots, especially the right side—Paul has his work cut out for him. Daryl grunts when Paul leans into a particularly tight knot.

“Too much?” Paul asks, easing back.

“Nah, ‘s good.”

Paul’s mouth quirks with a smile as he returns to his task. He works his way through the left shoulder, then moves on to the right. He presses in certain spots and checks Daryl’s pain levels and mobility, and does a few specific things to ease the muscles there. Then he finishes with a full back massage, dragging his palms all the way down to Daryl’s hips and back up again, over and over.

Paul is just about finished when he hears a quiet snore. He chuckles softly to himself and decides to take it as a compliment that he managed to get Daryl to relax so much that he fell asleep.

He uses the edge of the towel Daryl’s lying on to wipe the oil off his hands, then eases himself gently down onto the bed and stretches out next to Daryl just for a minute, resting his back and arms after the workout they’ve had, digging into those firm muscles over and over.

It may technically be his bed, but he doesn’t want to be a creep. He’ll get up in a second and leave Daryl to sleep, just after he’s closed his eyes for a few moments.

* * *

The next thing Paul knows, he’s waking up, late afternoon sunlight streaming through his bedroom window. Daryl, still shirtless, lies on his side, watching him with calm eyes.

Paul registers the warm weight of Daryl’s hand resting on his side just above the dip of his waist and his heart does a helpless little flutter.

“Hey,” Paul murmurs with a sleepy smile.

“So you said no funny business during,” Daryl says without preamble, his voice a lovely, sleep-roughened rumble. “What about after?”

Paul is glad he’s not standing up. Daryl is usually so taciturn, a come-on that direct is enough to make him weak in the knees.

“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind about me?” Paul asks with a quirk of his lips. “Did I woo you with my skills in muscle manipulation?”

“That must be it,” Daryl murmurs drily. As he says the words, his hand drifts over Paul’s side, over faint bumps of scar tissue beneath his shirt…and it clicks.

It wasn’t homophobia that kept Daryl from admitting his feelings, it was his scars—or more specifically, his fear about what Paul would think of them. Now that that’s been cleared up, he’s like a river that’s burst through a dam. There’s nothing to hold him back.

Paul has spent so much of his life trying to be at peace with his scars, but it had never occurred to him that something good could actually come of them. Later he’s going to give himself time to process the magnitude of that, but right now he has a new boyfriend to flirt with.

“Wait, I know what it is,” Paul smirks, shifting closer to Daryl. “Now that you know how good my massages are you want them all to yourself, so you’ve decided to claim me as your own.”

Daryl doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “Would you just shut up and kiss me?”

Paul grins, and then does as he’s told.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos give me life :)


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